


Victors

by mistr3ssquickly



Series: Redemption [6]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VI: Return of the Jedi, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Leia's Pov, M/M, Multi, these idiots deserve each other, way back story, wtf this was supposed to be smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 14:48:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10389195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistr3ssquickly/pseuds/mistr3ssquickly
Summary: Luke promised that Leia shared his Force gift. In the aftermath of Endor, she learns she's not the only one who does.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Probably best to read [”Mates”](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6644461) ahead of this story, though you’ll not be terribly lost if you don’t.

**Victors**

Leia sits with Han at her back in the smoke-heavy air of night-time on Endor and watches the ebb and flow of the celebration going on around them, enough liquor in her belly to quell the undercurrent of hyperactive thought streaming through her mind, perfectly content to sit at the edge of the festivities and watch her fellow rebels eat and drink and forge friendships in desperate effort to cover the pain of loss, the devastation of reality lurking behind the bright glow of victory, of life scraped together from the remnants of death. She feels more than hears the rumble of Han’s voice as he treats Lando to a string of insults and laughs as he gets the same back in turn, the arm draped around her moving in a fretful non-rhythm, his fingertips tickling where they brush against her arm, not quite stroking her. Closes her eyes and breathes in the smoke-sharp night air and concentrates, feeling blindly for the Force, for the power Luke claimed she has, the power he’s so often sought to calm him when fear and anger threatened to overwhelm his gentle spirit.

She sees the light shift before her eyelids, broken by the inconstant flicker of the flames, the movement of bodies between her and the bonfires. She hears the breeze whisper through the campsite, plucking at her hair, still loose where she’s not bothered to braid it, the steady _thump_ of Han’s heartbeat, asynchronous with his breathing. She follows the rhythm of his heart, lets it lead her to the pull of his shirt against his skin, rough where he’s sweating a little in the humid evening air, the dull ache of a bruise blossoming heavy with clotted blood, aggravated by a tree-root pressed against his hip. Feels affection blossoming powerfully deep in the pit of his stomach, growing brighter when Lando settles in at his side, nudging him, calling him a bastard like it’s a pet name.

Curious, she reaches next for Lando, concentrating on the closeness of him, the memory of his rare sincere smiles, the few small touches they’ve exchanged over the months they’ve known each other. She can feel the bitterness of the ale he’s drinking, rich at the back of his tongue. The burn of camp smoke bothering his eyes. The underlying reservation he’s carried in his heart since his betrayal on Bespin, mistrust clashing at odds with the years of brotherhood he’s shared with the man at his side. The thick affection gathered like scar tissue at the edges of his soul aching when Han touches him, little more than a hand resting on Lando’s thigh, the contact carrying with it unspoken promises of forgiveness, redemption.

She’s just starting to draw back, the intrusion into Lando’s tormented spirit more than she can stomach, when she feels -- _something_ lance through her, swift and vivid as a blaster shot. Burning desperation heavy with the dregs of fear and isolation. Terror and rejection. Helplessness and fury.

“Whoa, you okay?” Han says when she pushes away from him, tensed as she skims the campsite, her heart pounding against her ribs.

“Luke,” she says, the name carried on her voice even before she’s had the chance to consciously think it. “I thought -- I felt something.”

Han frowns, pushing himself away from the tree he’d been lounging against. “Trouble?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Been awhile since he wandered off, now that you mention it,” Han says, “long enough for him to find some trouble to get himself into. Want help finding him?”

An act of nonchalance, probably convincing to the outside observer but gratifyingly false to Leia’s trained eye, the worry she sees in the downturn of Han’s mouth a comforting validation of her own. She pushes herself to her feet and offers Han her hand, squeezing when he takes it and stands as well. “Thank you,” she says.

“‘Course,” he says, winking at her. He turns to Lando, offering a sloppy mockery of a salute. “You’n Chewie keep the party goin’ ‘til we get back,” he says.

Lando raises his drink. “Will do.”

Han drops the swaggering affect the second they reach the edge of the light from the bonfires, dropping his hand to his blaster, the experienced fighter replacing the lounging smuggler in the blink of an eye, a comfort at Leia’s back. She closes her eyes and tries to feel Luke once again, her brow furrowing as she pushes away the distraction of insects hovering across the humid night air, the catch of her clothing against her skin, worry dark like ink seeping into her thoughts that she’ll make a fool of herself, chasing an imagined shadow of her lover, wandering through the undergrowth like a madwoman.

 _Luke,_ she thinks, focusing on the timbre of her voice, gentle in her mind, a forced affect of calm, _where are you?_

The response doesn’t come in words, but the surge of feeling welling up through her senses is unmistakably Luke, not unlike the touch of his hands against her skin, the warmth of his quiet laughter, the feel of it pulling her, like a guiding beacon. Drawing her close with restrained eagerness, an almost-desperation underlining his thoughts that makes Leia’s heart beat a little faster, her skin tingling with unease.

“This way,” she says, nodding to the northwest. “Hurry. I think something’s wrong.” And for just the briefest instant, she can feel Han’s worry, blending with her own, his frustration not long after when her shorter legs slow their pace.

They find the wreckage of an Imperial shuttle in a small clearing Leia suspects the shuttle created when it landed, more than a few thin saplings lying broken on the forest floor, the rich scent of sap and split wood at odds with the ozone coming from the smooth metal shell of the ship. Luke’s voice becomes audible as they make their way around to the entry hatch, his tone low and soothing, intimate among the flames and twisted metal of the wreckage around him. He looks terrible, his hair disheveled and skin marked with scars he didn’t have the last time Leia saw him out of his Jedi blacks, his undershirt torn in a few places, and he doesn’t look thrilled at the sight of her and Han when she says his name to get his attention, his mouth pressed in a thin line as he sits upright, shoulders squared.

“We need to act quickly,” he says, stretching out his prosthetic hand, still wrapped in its leather glove, when Han advances towards him first thing with his mouth open on a question, “I can explain later, but right now we need to act. I found a Jedi on the _Death Star,_ one of Palpatine’s prisoners. He’s badly injured and needs medical care beyond what I’m able to give him.”

Han swears and yanks his comlink off his belt without hesitating, always faster with jumping to action than any sentient Leia’s ever known. “Chewie,” he says when the wookiee answers immediately, “we’ve got a situation. Get Lando to the _Falcon_ and tell him to prep for departure. We’ve got a guy who needs med-evac and discretion. Lando’ll know where we need to go.” He clips his comlink back to his belt without waiting for a response, nodding once to Luke. “Should be just a few minutes. Can we move him?”

“Yes, I think so. I’ve got him on a ventilator, but his heart’s struggling,” Luke says. “I don’t know how much longer he has.”

At his side, the Jedi wheezes, trying without success to move. Luke stops him with a simple touch, pressing his organic hand to the wounded man’s chest, his fingers worrying the smooth fabric of his tunic, draped over Jedi like a blanket. “Be still,” he says, his voice quiet once again, heartbreak plain in his tone, winding through Leia’s thoughts, making her chest ache. “We’ll help. I promise, we’ll help.”

\---

Leia sits at Luke’s side after he’s evicted from what the doctor Lando introduced them to calls an operating room, the whole establishment crammed into a space smaller than her childhood bedroom on Alderaan, as dark and grimy as the city surrounding them. Luke radiates tension and pain and loss and exhaustion when she rests her hand on his knee, his moods always clearer to her when they’re in physical contact, and he looks at her unblinking for just a moment too long before covering her hand with his own, the feelings she can sense from him dropping at his touch, like the volume on a holo turned down, almost to inaudibility, the suddenness of it enough to make her dizzy.

“Are you doing that intentionally?” she asks after a moment.

Luke nods without looking at her. “A control technique. One I can teach you, if you want.” He looks at her sidelong. “I didn’t think you’d be able to tell.”

Leia shrugs. “You’re the one who said I have the same ... _gift_ that you have,” she says.

“You do,” Luke tells her. “Moreso than I do, I think. When you reached out, earlier, when you were able to find us, just through the Force--”

“I had you guiding me.”

Luke shakes his head. “I wasn’t. I was distracted.” He tightens his hand around hers, turning to press a kiss to her hair. “That was you, using the Force. With no training.”

“Yes, well,” Leia says. She rests her weight more fully against Luke’s side, her chin tucked over his shoulder, pleased when he slips his hand free of hers and wraps it around her body, keeping her close, allowing her to offer him what comfort she can, despite his usual tendency to avoid physical contact with others. They sit together in silence, waiting, the muffled sound of footsteps on the other side of the operating room door mixing with the muted hum of traffic above ground, the pressing quiet of the air around them. Luke shifts after five or so minutes have elapsed, his control slipping just enough for Leia to sense his discomfort, the pain from his own injuries escalating the longer he’s still, seated on the hard duraplast bench.

“You should rest,” she says when he shifts again, grimacing this time. “I can contact you if anything changes here.”

“I’m all right,” he says.

“You’re hurt,” she counters. “You hardly had time to be checked over by our medic on Endor, I’m sure.”

Luke shifts again. “I did. He said I’m fine,” he says, and the lie is so _laughably_ obvious that Leia feels her mouth twitch, weariness and worry and the emotional strain of the day severely reducing her usual control.

“Did he,” she says.

“Yes.”

“Mmm. Luke?”

“Yeah?”

“Please don’t lie to me.”

“I’m--”

“The medic on duty when we left was female,” Leia tells him, “and you’re clearly _not_ fine. Don’t make me call Han down here and tell him you’re hurt. You know how he is about you.”

Luke’s face goes very pink. “I’m sorry I lied to you,” he says, “but I _am_ fine, I promise. I can tell, through the Force. That’s how I knew we needed to act quickly with -- with Palpatine’s prisoner. I could _feel_ his injuries. How badly they were affecting him, his life.” He closes his eyes, his body going deathly still between two breaths. “He’s much more stable, now. I think he’ll live.”

Leia rests her hand gently on Luke’s back. “Good,” she says. “Then you can leave him to the doctor and rest.”

“I’d rather--”

_“Luke.”_

“Leia, really I’m--”

“I _will_ get Han down here to back me up,” Leia threatens. “Don’t think I won’t.”

Luke breathes out on a quiet chuckle in response and doesn’t budge from his place on the bench, his brief humor dissipating like morning mist under the warmth of the sun when Leia makes good on her threats and comms Han, Luke insisting still that he should stay behind when Han shows up, looking grumpy in the way he gets whenever he’s worried and doesn’t want to let it show.

“Your new best friend ain’t gonna die just ‘cause you’re not out here numbing your tailbone on this bench,” he says, tugging hard enough at Luke’s upper arm that Luke has to stand just to keep his shoulder from being dislocated. “And if he is, you sittin’ out here isn’t gonna save him any better’n you getting some sleep will, and you know it.”

He meets Luke’s glare with one of his own, his hand tight still around Luke’s arm, creasing the dark fabric, the two of them locked in a match of stubbornness so animal in nature that Leia can _feel_ it, radiating like the warmth from one of the fires on Endor’s moon. She watches, breathless as she feels Luke relent first, even before he loses the aggressive posture and twists his arm gently out of Han’s grip, his muttered _all right_ barely audible over the whir of systems unseen overhead. It’s _fascinating,_ knowing that her sense of people, her uncanny ability to read the emotions of those around her, comes from something more than just what her father often dismissed as feminine intuition, that it’s part of a greater power, a bigger phenomenon, one she shares with Luke. It’s also distracting, enough so that she doesn’t sense Han’s intentions until he’s got his other hand wrapped around her arm, tugging at her more gently than he tugged at Luke, but hard enough that it compels her to her feet.

“The same goes for you, Your Highness,” he says when she opens her mouth to remind him to keep his hands to himself if he’s going to be a brute. “Bed’s awful empty with you two sulkin’ down here.”

“That is _not_ why I called you down here you kn--”

“No, it ain’t, and it ain’t why I came when you called, either,” Han says, “but it’s a damned nice side-effect. Now c’mon. You’re dead on your feet, both’a you.”

There’s just enough weariness in his tone that speaks to the long battle they’ve just barely won, the suspicions he wears like a weapon, like armor weighing on him, dragging at his pace as Leia relents and falls into step at his side, that she’s tempted to point out that he’s in no better shape than she is, but she holds her tongue, too tired to rise to Han’s baiting. Luke follows obediently behind them, silent under the veneer of control once again, recognizable when she reaches out, trying to sense him, now that she knows what she’s feeling. She reaches instead for the Jedi Luke rescued when Luke’s controlled silence doesn’t yield under her probing, feels what might be a slow, steady heartbeat, the flow of sedatives numbing nerve and muscle, masking pain not unlike what she sensed in Luke before he sealed himself off.

Which reminds her that Luke’s slipped out of having a medical check-up himself, the resulting surge in temper bringing her to a stop so abrupt that Luke nearly steps on her.

“You’ve not been checked over by a medic,” she says, pointing her finger in his face.

Both of Han’s eyebrows lift, his gaze darting between the two of them. “You hurt?” he says, looking Luke up and down.

“I’m all right,” Luke says.

“He’s not,” Leia says. “You should see his chest.”

Han, as direct as ever, reaches for the clasps holding Luke’s tunic closed. Luke pushes his hand away, wisely wrapping his fingers around Han’s as he does, keeping them still between them.

“Superficial bruising,” he says, his voice gentle, and the answering wave of affection Leia senses from Han is strong enough to make her dizzy. Han clears his throat, pulling his hand free of Luke's like he realizes Leia's caught him being soft.

“Yeah, well,” he says, “couldn’t hurt to get it checked. This’s a good place to get treated. Better’n what you’d get back with the others, probably.”

“No need,” Luke says, and Leia honestly can’t tell if he’s using some sort of mind trick on Han or if Han’s just being unusually compliant, but he gives in with little more than a grunt, dragging Luke up to walk between himself and Leia as they make their way down the corridor to the room Lando negotiated for them, which is little more than a bunker with a bed in the center and a narrow ‘fresher in the corner but has a sturdy-looking door and a modern lock on it, Han’s lack of apprehension as he kicks off his boots and sets his gun-belt aside comfort enough for Leia’s worries. She settles on the far edge of the bed and winds her hair into a simple braid, content to watch Han crowd Luke’s personal space, meeting moderate resistance with his trademark stubbornness, undeterred as he uses his superior size and strength to wrestle Luke out of his tunic and survey the injuries Luke’s sustained.

The marks that are honestly far worse than Leia had initially thought, deep purpled bruises that stretch around Luke’s chest and belly, striping his back like dark bolts of lightning, muddled only against what looks like it’s probably an impact bruise, uneven darkness bleeding into the space that spans the skin between his spine and ribs. Han breathes out on a low whistle, covering the largest bruise with his hand, and cups the back of Luke’s neck with his other, shaking his head as he leans in to rest his forehead against Luke’s, frustration and concern warming around him like the prelude to a fit of temper.

“Looks like it was a helluva fight,” he says softly, his words just barely audible across the room.

Luke nods mutely, swallowing hard, his control slipping enough that Leia can feel the tension in his chest, the ache of worry and fear and regret and loss mixing with restraint and affection that wells up when Han dips a little lower and presses a kiss to Luke’s mouth, gentle in a way Leia never would have guessed he could be, back when he was little more than a gun for hire, a heartless bastard mercenary dragging his feet and bitching miserably whenever she or Luke tried to get him to act like a good man.

“Much as I want you in my bed,” he says, his thumb worrying the short hairs at the back of Luke's neck, “I'd sleep better if you saw a medic first. And you know the same goes for the princess. Don't want to cheat her outta her beauty rest, do you?”

Luke sighs, looking sidelong at Leia before returning his attention to Han. “I’ve done some work on my injuries with the Force already,” he says. “The rest will heal on its own.”

“Uh- _huh,”_ Han says. “Nothin’ a few hours in a bacta tank couldn’t do faster, though.”

“Han, it’s--”

“You’d insist if it were either of us,” Leia puts in, keeping her voice quiet and gentle, knowing all too well how badly Luke reacts when he feels cornered. “And you would be right to.”

Han tightens the hand wrapped around the back of Luke’s neck, quieting the objections Luke had undoubtedly opened his mouth to voice. “Please?”

Luke stares at him for what feels like a very long time, unblinking and severe in a way he’s been only lately, a cold shiver pulling through Leia’s belly at the similarity she can see between her sweet lover and the man he claims fathered him, fathered _them,_ for all that she’s staunchly refused to dwell on _that_ thought for any length of time. He could resist both of them if he wanted, she realizes. Get his way with comparatively little effort, ignoring their requests just as easily as he could force them to bend to his will. A temptation, certainly, and the fact that he neither succumbs to it nor struggles with it longer than he does, little more than a few seconds, speaks volumes to his character, to the sheer _goodness_ of him, as bright and warm as the twin suns of his homeworld.

“All right, I’ll go,” he says on a exhaled breath, drawing Leia from her ruminations. “I doubt I’ll need anything as serious as immersion, though.”

He shrugs his tunic back on and gives Leia a kiss before leaving, walking a bit more stiffly than usual as he goes, the hidden extent of his injuries bringing a new wave of concern to prickle at Leia’s skin, soothed only a bit when Han settles beside her on the bed, his arms draped around her in a loose embrace.

“You doin’ all right?” he says into her hair, awkward in the way he is whenever he’s trying to be sweet.

She nods. “I have my release papers from medical on base if you want to see them. I’m fine.”

Han chuckles. “Wasn’t askin’ about that,” he says, “and you know it. You’ve been wound tighter’n a spring since we went off to find Luke, look like you’re half ready to snap even now.” He noses her hair, dragging one of his hands up to cup one of her breasts, the gesture awkward, more like a reflex than an indication of desire or pleasure. “Ain’t like you to keep secrets from me like you’ve been doin’, lately.”

Leia sighs through her nose. “I’m not keeping any secrets,” she says. “I’m just--” She gestures vaguely at the wall, words failing her in a way they never seemed to until Luke Skywalker came into her life, dragging Han along with him, either of them on their own enough to drive her crazy, and both of them together ...

“I’m tired,” she concludes, simply.

“Easy enough solution to that,” Han says, sliding his hand down to wrap around her ribs, pulling her gently back with him onto the mattress. She lets him move her, the cool sheets a blessing against her skin, the weight of his arm a comfort where it’s draped over her side, proprietary and rough, tightening down on her enough that she has to struggle against him, just to turn enough to press her mouth against his in a simple kiss, pleased when Han growls and takes the kiss long, the simple pleasure of lying in his arms, safe from immediate harm, greater than any pleasure in recent memory.

She intends to stay awake, to wait for Luke to return before giving in to the weariness suffusing every inch of her _being,_ but the strain of the past weeks conspire against her, the soft mattress and the warmth of Han’s embrace, the soothing rhythm of his breathing after he’s dropped off to sleep dragging her under within minutes, deeply enough that she either doesn’t dream or is too far under to remember her dreams upon waking. When she does wake, it’s to the sound of the door lock disengaging, the disorientation of her unfamiliar surroundings tempered by the sight of Luke, his voice soft as he says _it’s okay, it’s just me._

“What time is it?” she whispers, mindful of Han sleeping still at her side.

“Early, yet,” Luke says. “Go back to sleep.”

 _“Early?”_ Leia echoes. “How long have I been asleep?”

Luke ... _shifts,_ for want of better description, for all that his face doesn’t give away anything. “A few hours,” he says, but he’s lying, or being vague intentionally, at least. Leia narrows her eyes at him.

“You haven’t slept,” she says.

“I rested while I was being treated.”

“And then you went right back to sitting outside the clinic,” Leia says. It isn’t a question, and Luke doesn’t deny it. Leia sighs. “How’s the Jedi?”

“Better. Stable now,” Luke says. “He still has quite a way to go before he’s out of danger, though. His injuries--”

Leia waits, but Luke doesn’t finish his thought, shaking his head and dropping his gaze, clearly uncomfortable. “How long had he been held captive?” she asks, coming to his rescue.

Luke swallows. “Years,” he says. “Since the fall of the Old Republic.”

Leia swears softly. Her father used to tell her stories about how things were before the rise of the Emperor, about his Jedi friend Obi-Wan Kenobi. Stories now decades old, as old as she is herself. “He’s free now, Luke,” she says, reaching for him when no other words of comfort come to mind, pulls him down to sit at the edge of the bed, the stink of antiseptic and worry rising from his skin when she rests her head on his shoulder, her hand on his thigh. “You saved him.”

Luke tips his head to the side, his cheek pressed against the top of her head. “No,” he says. “I may have been the one to pilot his shuttle away from the _Death Star,_ but he saved himself. And me. Everyone, really. He’s ... he’s _strong,_ Leia. Even with all he’s been through, even being around the Emperor as long as he was, exposed to the Dark Side constantly, he’s still drawn to the Light.” He breathes out on a long sigh. “I’m not sure I could do that. Not if I were subjected to what he’s endured.”

“That’s the biggest heap’a shit I’ve ever heard,” Han comments before Leia’s managed to voice an argument, his words muffled where his face is half-pressed into a pillow, “like sayin’ the sun ain’t gonna rise on that dustball homeworld’a yours. You’re so full’a light it’s blinding.” He rolls over just enough to paw at Luke, missing and catching the fabric of Leia’s nightshirt instead. “Now stop talkin’ and come to bed. ‘S too early for this shit.”

Leia feels more than hears Luke’s soft answering laugh, Han’s bluntness for once exactly what was needed, easing some of the tension she can feel in Luke’s body. Luke kisses her on the forehead and pushes himself to his feet, wisely taking a step back, putting him well out of Han’s reach, his eyes warm as he reaches up to tug at the clasps of his tunic. “I could use some sleep,” he says, “but I need a shower first.”

Han grunts in response, stretching before going still once again, his breathing deep and even enough by the time Luke’s emerging from the shower, beautifully, unabashedly nude, that Leia assumes he’s dropped back off to sleep, but he says _bruising’s lookin’ better_ and moves over enough to make room for Luke on his side of the bed, dragging his fingers down the length of Luke’s chest when Luke lies down. Luke makes a non-committal noise at the back of his throat and closes his eyes, relaxing only once Han’s settled at his side, Leia curling up with her back pressed to Han’s, the comfort of her lovers’ closeness lulling her back to sleep with little difficulty.

\---

They remain on Socorro as long as they can without contact from the Alliance, which amounts to little over three standard days, Lando joining them at mid-day on the fourth with a swagger in his step and word that he’s had contact through his various networks from no fewer than _four_ high-ranking Alliance officers, all well-aware that Leia was last seen in Lando’s company and clearly ready to blame him for any injury that befalls her.

“I told one of them that we’d slipped off to elope on my homeworld,” Lando says, slinging a familiar arm across Han’s shoulders and grinning wolfishly at Leia. “Not sure I could tell you which one he was, and the joke didn’t quite go over like I’d intended it to, so you might have some, ah, _rumors_ to dispel when you go back to the group.”

He winks at her. Leia struggles not to roll her eyes.

“I’ll contact General Akbar and let him know we’re all safe,” she says, rising from her seat. “I shouldn’t have waited so long to make contact.”

“Pretty sure they can manage without you for few days every now and then, Princess,” Han says, reaching for her as she walks past, but she dodges him, returning to their rented room and sending a coded message to the Alliance identifying her location and companions, braced for the inevitable displeasure she’s expecting to receive in answer, prettied up and politically correct, but a scolding at its core nonetheless. She is, unfortunately, not disappointed, but she’s free to roll her eyes over the responses, treating her datapad to the sort of scowl her father used to call the deadliest weapon in the known universe.

 _Please advise on the situation which has demanded your unexpected departure with Commander Skywalker and General Solo_ blinks on the screen of the ‘pad, unanswered yet and impatient for her response in the way only electronic messages can be. Not a difficult question, certainly, nothing she can’t answer honestly -- and with good news, even, the revelation that Luke isn’t the last of the Jedi, that they’ve dealt more of a blow against the Empire than just gaining command of its new weapon and all the personnel aboard, sure to bring some form of joy to the higher-ups, the men and women she’s fought beside for years, trusting as deeply as she trusts Luke or Han or herself.

Still, she hesitates over her answer, her hands poised a hair’s breadth above the keys, a strange, powerful sense of resistance and rejection filling her with each response she formulates in her head, fear and defensiveness tingling in her fingertips. Revealing Luke’s Jedi companion will inevitably lead to an inquiry into the Jedi’s allegiance and, by extension, Luke's, his desertion from the group on Endor not yet an issue, but likely to become one if there’s an investigation. She doubts Luke would reveal his theories about his paternity without a fight, but she knows him well enough to know he _will_ tell the truth, if forced, whatever truth he chooses to believe. And where proving or disproving his biological relationship to Darth Vader would likely be impossible, a simple test could reveal Luke’s relationship to her, and if he says with confidence that Vader fathered him, then--

 _The situation is developing. I will prepare a full brief as soon as we are certain of the details_ she responds, finally, her imagination providing for her a clear picture of General Madine’s scowl upon reading such a non-answer, his temper always eager to fray whenever she puts into practice the diplomatic tactics she learnt on Coruscant. She considers, briefly, sending an additional message, something to soften the tone of its predecessor, but nothing comes to mind so she leaves it as-is, stretching the stiffness from her joints before leaving the quiet of the room, her nerves strangely frayed, disquiet settling like water at the base of her spine.

She finds Luke standing outside the room when she opens the door, his body language speaking to uncertainty and restraint, for all that he’s doing his best to keep her from getting a read on him. Clearly loitering outside the room, wanting to give her some privacy to send messages back to the Alliance, but not comfortable with the amount of time she’s made him wait; his usual behavior when something’s gone wrong and he’s the one sent to brief her. Leia’s stomach drops at that particular thought, for all that the anticipation of bad news is as familiar to her as the lines on her own palms. She steels herself, projecting confidence and cool-headedness more on instinct than conscious thought.

“What is it?” she says by way of greeting.

Luke blinks at her. “What’s -- what?”

“You look like you’ve come with bad news,” Leia prompts.

“Oh.” Luke frowns. “Sorry. No, I haven’t. I was just -- I thought maybe you’d need my help explaining the situation here to the others.”

Leia narrows her eyes. As much as she loves Luke, he’s always been far more skilled in communicating with actions than with words, his few attempts at negotiation over the years all barely passable, at best, and downright disastrous the rest of the time. “Interested in trying your hand at diplomacy, are you?” she says, crossing her arms over her chest.

“No. I just--” Luke straightens, taking on the affect of the Jedi knight he’d like to believe he’s become. “I wanted to help, if I could.”

“Help,” Leia echoes.

“Explaining what we’re doing here,” Luke says again.

“You wanted to make sure I didn’t tell them about your Jedi friend,” Leia translates, gratified by the flicker of utter _guilt_ she feels from Luke before he clamps down his control once again, the echoes of disquiet that remain so similar to what she felt earlier that she can tell it’s the same, revealing just how long Luke had been lingering outside their rooms. “I’d think you could give me a little more credit than _that.”_

“That’s not it,” Luke says. “I just--” He sighs, the weariness of the past days aging him before her eyes. “What did you tell them?”

“I told them the situation was still developing and we’d brief them later,” Leia says. “No details.”

Luke’s eyes go wide, just for a second. “You didn’t--”

Leia shakes her head, allowing the sheer relief in Luke’s expression to bring a smile to her lips. “All things considered,” she says, “I thought that was the most honest thing to tell th--”

She’s not expecting Luke to cut her off with a kiss, rough and desperate and sloppy, nor is she expecting the _flood_ of emotion she feels from him as she recovers from surprise and kisses him back, gratitude and love and relief and joy tumbling through her like shadows beneath a falling star. “Thank you,” he breathes against her mouth when he pulls away, keeping her close, his forehead warm where it’s pressed to hers. “I didn’t mean to tell you what to do, but I didn’t -- we can’t -- just -- _thank you.”_

There’s a bitter tint of fear in his babbling, creeping in around the edges of the warm glow she’s always sensed from him, long before she knew what she was feeling. No different from the fear she felt when he said goodbye to her on Endor, the fear she sensed from him sometimes as he slept at her side on Tatooine, his sleep broken by nightmares. “I don’t think they need to know there’s more than one Jedi running around,” she tells him when he folds her into a possessive embrace, her cheek resting against his chest. “Not right now, anyway.”

“No,” Luke agrees, “not right now.”

“When the time is right, we’ll tell them,” Leia says. “Together.” She pushes away from him just enough to touch his cheek, brushing her thumb over the familiar scars from the injuries he sustained on Hoth, smoothed now with time but still raised enough for her to feel them. “All three of us.”

Luke kisses her once more, and when he pulls away, he offers her a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “All right,” he says. “We’ll do that.”

He’s still tense as they rejoin Han, though, quiet and sealed off in a way that puts Leia on edge, has her listening with only half an ear to the conversation going on at her side, her attention focused primarily on reaching out, feeling for Luke’s familiar warmth, for the fear or anger or strain she suspects he’s trying to hide from her. She feels, instead, something darker, deeper, like nothing she’s ever felt from Luke before. Curious, she follows it, traces the hard edges of self-loathing and pain that resonate for her only in the darkest places of her heart, drawing up memory she’s struggled to suppress: the dark, cavernous command deck of the _Death Star,_ Vader’s hand tight on her shoulder, squeezing like a vice. The sickening blast of light and the shockwave of the explosion that followed, the deep blackness of death that washed over her like a tide. Throat tight, she tries to pull away from it, tries to ground herself in the sound of Han’s voice, in the memory of his touch, his strength, but she feels the darkness pulling at her with increased intent, dragging her away into the isolation of her own thoughts, reaching _back_ just as she’s reached for it, as if hungry for the panic she can feel crawling up her spine, filling her mouth, her eyes blurring with it until it’s all she can see, surrounding her in silence, suffocating her.

She’s drawn back from it by the touch of Luke’s hand on her cheek, the sound of his voice gentle and even as he says her name, pulling her steadily to him out of the darkness, back to the light and noise of the cantina around them, her surroundings coming slowly into focus as she blinks, disoriented and sick to her stomach. Han is crouched at her side, one arm wrapped around her, a little too tightly for comfort, aggressive worry seeping through his skin into hers, bright like a burn, his attention focused fully on Luke. _The hell just happened_ he’s asking, irritated when Luke doesn’t answer him, focusing on Leia still, his touch cool against her cheek, grounding. Real.

“I’m all right,” she tries to say but her voice comes out more of a croak than anything else, as hoarse as if she’d been shouting. She swallows and tries again without much success, the room pitching around her as Han levers her up, reaching with his free hand for the glass of tea Luke had been drinking and pressing it to her lips.

“What the _hell_ just happened,” he says again, louder this time, once she’s sipped some of the tea and regained her voice.

Luke shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says. “It felt -- I don’t know.”

He’s frowning at Leia as he speaks, looking at her like he’s trying to read her mind through her eyes, and the thought that he maybe _could_ do just that makes Leia’s stomach clench a little. “I was thinking about home,” she says, looking away from Luke, twisting enough to see Han’s frown, his eyes full of concern. “It ... got away from me, I suppose.”

“That’s one way’a puttin’ it,” Han says. He looks away, scanning the cantina, and Leia can _feel_ him prickling, defensive in the way he gets whenever he’s drawn too much attention to himself. “Should probably get you back to the room. This ain’t any place for a person to rest.”

Leia nods, grateful for Han’s arm around her, steadying her as she climbs to her feet. The cantina is more or less as noisy as it’s been each time she’s visited it, but she can feel the attention of the patrons lingering on her, on her companions, curiosity and wariness rubbing raw over her senses until Luke brushes the back of his hand against hers, his touch dropping her perception of those around her, drawing her into a comfortable silence, like that of a snowstorm, the air she draws on her next breath clean and crisp with it, lifting the fog around her like a veil.

“I can try to explain it later,” he says when she looks at him. “For now, though, I think we should go back.”

She doesn’t argue with him, glad to exchange the noise and movement of the streets for the quiet of their room, the heavy door locked securely behind them, for all that she feels none of the disorientation from earlier, her strength and energy returned in full, no lingering side-effects. She reaches out to accept the shot Han pours for her, knowing from years on base with combat-weary soldiers and pilots the effectiveness of strong liquor as a medicine for post-traumatic stress, but Luke steps in and stops her with a firm grip on her wrist, his eyes bright when she looks at him, surprised.

“Don’t,” he says. “Alcohol can make it far, far worse. You’ll want to learn to cope with it in other ways.”

“C’mon, Luke, it’s just a shot,” Han says.

“Enough to make it worse,” Luke says, even and calm as he turns to meet Han’s frown with a steady gaze. “I learned that the hard way.”

Han looks to Leia, who pulls her hand from Luke’s grasp and lowers it to her lap. “I’ll have it later if I need it,” she tells him. “Thank you.”

Han shrugs and takes the shot himself. “Suit yourself,” he says, presenting them with his back and stalking away.

Luke settles into the chair near the door, watching Han move around the room, restless as a caged animal. “I think it would be best if we left Socorro as soon as possible,” he says, moving his gaze to Leia. “This isn’t a good environment for us to be in long-term.”

“Never meant for it to be long-term,” Han says. “Hell, I thought we’d be on our way by now. Soon as your friend’s stable enough to fly.”

“He should be soon,” Luke says. “Tomorrow, if needed. He’s healing well.”

“Glad to hear it,” Han says without conviction. “Any word from your friends in high places where we’re goin’ next, Princess?”

Leia shakes her head. “They’re waiting for me to brief them on our situation before they involve us in any strategic action, I think.”

“Good of ‘em,” Han says, rolling his eyes.

“I thought it was a considerate gesture, yes.”

Han snorts and lets it drop. Leia looks at Luke, cocking her head as she considers his expression, cool and unreadable, nothing like the Luke she’s known over the years. “Have you given any thought to where you might recommend we go?” she says. “We may be presented with several options. It would be helpful for me to know your preferences, if you have any.”

“This a Luke-only thing, or are you interested in my opinions too?” Han says.

“Yes, I’d like to hear your thoughts as well,” Leia says without looking away from Luke. “This affects all of us, after all.”

Han, for whatever reason, finds _that_ funny enough to laugh, flopping down on the foot of the bed hard enough to make the springs squeak. “Always did love a woman with a sense of humor,” he says, “but y’know, it _ain’t all that funny_ when--”

“Tatooine,” Luke says, as if he’d not heard Han speaking. He blinks once, slowly, looking from Leia to Han and back again, his expression calm still, utterly unreadable.

“Tatooine,” Leia echoes.

“Yes.”

Han chuckles dryly. “I know I probably _shouldn’t_ be surprised you think runnin’ home’s the best bet, but--”

“It’s not home,” Luke interjects.

“Oh, _‘course_ it’s not home,” Han says, rolling his eyes, “since you didn’t grow up there or anything, and you didn’t go runnin’ back there to become a full-blown sorcerer so you could single-handedly save the galaxy from Darth Vader, either. Ain’t that right.”

 _That_ gets a reaction from Luke. A small one, little more than a flicker of temper flashing past his control, but a reaction nonetheless, for all that his expression doesn’t change. “We returned to Tatooine for you,” Luke says, each word measured and careful. “I would have trained no matter where I was.”

“Makin’ my next point for me, kid,” Han says. “I don’t especially care if you think of it as _home_ or not. Point bein’ that there ain’t a person in this room who hasn’t had some kind’a trauma at the hands of the planet you were raised on. You, me, the princess. Don’t know all that much about this Jedi friend’a yours, but from what you’ve said, he’s been through enough already, doesn’t need to go somewhere he’s likely to be locked up or tortured or killed by the locals or the wildlife or -- hell -- the _climate._ There’s thousands’a other worlds out there with better weather, better defenses, better tech, better -- _everything_ you could take him. Better for him _and_ for you.”

Luke laces his fingers together, pressing the tips of his thumbs together to form a circle, his light skin contrasting the darkness of his trousers in the spread of his thighs. A centering technique Leia recognizes, something he learned during their long months together on Tatooine, a tell he has when he’s stressed or feeling cornered. She reaches over to touch him on the arm, feeling the coiled strength in the muscles beneath the fabric of his tunic going tense under her fingers. “Why Tatooine?” she asks gently, for all that she’s fairly certain Luke can sense the animal dread she’s felt since he first mentioned returning to the world she still sees vividly in her nightmares almost every night.

“We talked about it,” Luke says, after a few false starts, “the Jedi and I. It’s -- it’s not a place anyone will come looking for him. Me, maybe, but that would be a long shot. And even _if_ that happens, it wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing. It’d allow us an easy way to flush out anyone who wants to eradicate the Jedi still. Loyalists to the Emperor.”

“Thought you’d be sick of _askin’_ for trouble by now,” Han grumbles.

“I’m not _asking_ for trouble,” Luke tells him. “We don’t anticipate that kind of ambush, or even that it will _occur_ to what remains of the Empire to look for me. I’m one man, and I’ve not been extensively trained, so I’m not much of a threat. Especially if I’m grounded on an Outer Rim planet.”

Han lifts an eyebrow at that. “This ain’t some kind of self-imposed punishment for somethin’ is it?”

Luke shakes his head. “No.”

“You’re sure.”

“I am.”

Han shrugs. “Be that as it may, still don’t like the idea of goin’ anywhere near Tatooine,” he says.

“You won’t be,” Luke says. He darts a glance at Leia, then goes back to staring Han down, determination pulling the corners of his mouth into a frown. “You and Leia will be needed back with the others. I’ll be going alone.”

“Don’t like you tellin’ me what to do, Luke,” Han says. “You know that.”

Luke nods. “I do. But I’m right this time. And besides, like you said, Tatooine’s not been the best place for any of us. I’d feel better if you were somewhere safer. Both of you.”

Leia winces, expecting Han’s reaction to Luke’s clumsy attempt at protecting them to be just as bad as it is, Han resorting immediately to red-faced shouting that ignites Luke’s temper as well. She weathers it in silence, employing every calming technique she learnt on Alderaan and Coruscant _just_ to resist the urge to jump into the ensuing argument, repeating to herself like a mantra that the tangled clash of tempers and egos before her is toxic enough without her input. She’s not surprised when Han storms out on a string of curses only moments into the blow-up, leaving Leia to swallow a sigh and Luke to steep in his anger, the silence around them deafening, stretching thin after the door’s slammed behind Han’s retreating back. He’s not gone far, lingering close enough to grab Luke if Luke tries to bolt, Leia assumes, his lack of Force sensitivity leaving him blind to the fact that she can tell where he is, how badly he’s hurting, the pained look in Luke’s eyes when he finally turns to look at her telling her plainly that he can sense it as well, likely more keenly than she can.

“I didn’t mean for that to go like it did,” he says, his hands clenching and unclenching like a nervous habit at his side.

Leia shakes her head. “You know Han better than that,” she says, holding up a hand when Luke reacts defensively, his mouth open on a string of excuses she’s frankly not interested in hearing. “Luke, he’s gone with you to every corner of this galaxy for the last four years, whenever he could, no matter where you were going. Telling him he can’t any longer because you suddenly think he needs you to protect him from harm--”

“That’s _not_ what I said,” Luke snaps.

“That’s what he heard.”

Luke glares at her. “What about you?” he says. “What did _you_ hear?”

Leia sighs. “That you’re planning to do something dangerous, possibly fatal, and you’re trying to keep us from knowing about it or getting involved,” she says. “That you’re taking with you a stranger none of us knows who is in no condition to fight at your side or help you if you’re captured or injured. That you--” She stops herself, lifting an eyebrow when Luke cocks his head at her.

“What?”

Leia closes her eyes. “That you don’t need us anymore, now that you’ve found another Jedi,” she says, feeling Luke’s rejection of her words even before she’s opened her eyes to take in the look of horror on his face. “I know -- or, at least I _hope_ \-- that’s not the case, but it’s how it sounds, to us. To me.”

“That’s not _at all_ what I was trying to say,” Luke says, his voice loud in the small room. “Why would you--”

“Because that’s how you’ve been acting since Endor,” Leia tells him, struggling to keep her voice even and calm despite the temper she can feel boiling up inside her. “You’ve been guarding the Jedi like you think we’re going to turn him over to the Alliance if you turn your back for a moment. You’ve told us nothing about him, not even his _name._ And now you’re trying to take him someplace you think neither of us will be eager to follow you, and you’re acting uncharacteristically defensive about it, on top of that.”

Luke crosses his arms over his chest, scowling. “I don’t think you’re going to turn him over to anyone,” he says.

“Is that why you were so relieved when I didn’t mention him to General Akbar, then?” Leia says. It’s an underhanded trick, feels mean even as the words are coming out of her mouth, but she doesn’t have enough cool left to care, especially.

“No. Yes. It’s -- I’m not used to politics like you are, I didn’t know--”

“--if you could trust me,” Leia says. _“Me,_ of all people.”

“I trust you with my _life,_ Leia.”

“But not with the life of your Jedi?”

“I don’t want you to get hurt because of him,” Luke says.

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t have accepted our help in saving his life in the first place,” Leia snaps, her temper finally getting the better of her, the look of hurt on Luke’s face at her words darkly gratifying. He tries to cover it, but he’s never been terribly good at bluffing his way through an argument, least of all with her. “We _want_ to help, and all you’re doing is pushing us away.”

“I’m not trying to push you away,” Luke says. “I’m just--” He gestures angrily, runs his fingers through his hair, the strands clinging to each other in the dry air of the room. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve _never_ known what I’m doing. And if you or Han get hurt again _because_ I don’t know what I’m doing, I’ll never forgive myself.”

“We’re plenty capable of getting ourselves into trouble without your help or consent,” Leia informs him, not trying at all to conceal the offense in her tone. “And besides that, you’re being terribly selfish, aren’t you? Going off on your own without a thought for how badly _we’ll_ feel if something happens to you.”

Luke’s eyes go wide for just a moment before he drops his gaze, treating the floor to a desperately broken frown. Leia leaves him to his own frustrations for a moment, then pushes herself to her feet, wrapping her fingers around the crook of his elbow and pulling, compelling him over to sit beside her, the slump of his shoulders at odds with the elevated rhythm of his heartbeat, his pulse visible in the vein at his throat.

“Let us help you,” she says when he doesn’t speak or look at her. “Please.”

“I don’t _need_ \--”

“Yes, you do,” she counters, her temper too hot still for her to wait for Luke to fully voice his frankly ridiculous objections. “Luke, you’ve _always_ needed our help, just as much as Han or I have needed yours.”

Luke looks at her sidelong. “Don’t let Han hear you say that.”

“You’re too stubborn and proud for your own good,” she says. “Both of you. And I’m sure I’m no better; I’d not be able to stand either of you, otherwise.” She drags her hand down Luke’s back, feeling the bumps of his spine through his tunic, the fabric too thick for her to feel the scars she’s memorized by now, a map of their years together, the dangers they’ve faced, battles they’ve won. “Start from the beginning. What do you need?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re _insisting_ on taking your Jedi companion to Tatooine,” she says. “He’s injured still, recovering, and Tatooine isn’t the best place for advanced medical care, or really any kind of medical care at all. So, what do you need to make this work? What can we do?”

Luke sighs. Uncomfortable still with the thought of conceding to her wishes, but smart enough, at least, to not fight her without good reason. “Lando called in some favors for me,” he says. “He secured a small freighter with enough power to handle the life-support systems needed to -- address long-term medical needs, so transport and care aren’t a concern.”

“All right,” Leia says.

“There’s always work for construction, maintenance -- physical labor -- on Tatooine,” Luke continues, “so bringing in a suitable living in the outskirts of one of the cities won’t be difficult. If we need to be in hiding, instead, we can, since I’m familiar with the Wastes, now, know how to navigate them, how to live there safely.”

“You’ve thought this through,” Leia says. “I’m impressed.”

Luke makes a face, clearly displeased with her patronizing tone, but he doesn’t say anything about it. “The only problem is,” he says, instead, “or could be, the Alliance. I’m ranked commander, so I would technically be deserting if I leave. I don’t know of any deserters, so I don’t know how serious that charge is, or how actively they’d pursue me -- _us_ \-- but I don’t think our absence would go unnoticed.” He straightens his posture, looking Leia in the eye, finally. “I don’t want them wasting their resources and fighters on something as pointless as looking for us. Especially since we won’t want to be found.”

 _And won’t be findable until we want to be found_ he doesn’t say, but Leia hears it all the same. “So you need a cover story,” she says. “Something to prevent pursuit and, if possible, avoid the appearance of desertion, without disclosing your reason for ... putting some distance between yourself and the Alliance. For the time being.”

Luke wrinkles his nose, then nods. “Yeah, I guess. Yeah.”

“Mm.”

Leia looks across the dimly lit room, letting her eyes go unfocused as she thinks. Tatooine has little going for it, she remembers, both from her studies on Coruscant of organized crime in the Outer Rim and the research she did before accompanying Luke there to rescue Han from the Hutt. It has no large deposits of natural resources, no real industry to speak of. Its location doesn’t make it of any real benefit as a strategic location for military supply or waypoint. And where its criminal underbelly is renowned throughout the Outer Rim, its slave-trade bringing in enough wealth to sustain the economic infrastructure, its lack of formal or powerful governance makes it--

Realization washes through her like a burst of adrenaline, powerfully enough that Luke must be able to sense it, his expression alarmed when he turns to look at her.

“Are you all right?” he says, his tone more curious than concerned.

“I am,” she says. “I think I’ve -- I’ve got it, the cover story you need.”

Luke raises both eyebrows, high enough that his fringe conceals them. “Already?”

Leia dips her chin in a nod. “I think so,” she says. “Do you remember, after Yavin, when we were given our first set of orders, the three of us. There was a ... _misunderstanding_ between Han and Chewbacca about Han’s compensation for taking the job -- do you remember that?”

Luke doesn’t smile, but his expression does soften, his eyes warm when he looks up at her. “He thought Han had taken us as payment. As pleasure slaves,” he says. “Yes. I remember that. It was _awful._ Han grumbled about it for a month afterwards.”

“A month at least,” Leia agrees. “That aside, though, do you remember what you said that night?”

Luke’s cheeks go very pink very fast, obviously recalling his shyness about sleeping with two lovers at once instead of the memory Leia is trying to reference, which makes her laugh. “Not _that_ part,” she says, resting her hand on his knee, pleased when he wraps his hand around hers, squeezing gently. “Before that. When I told you about Kashyyyk, about the embargo placed there by the Empire and the resulting enslavement of the Wookiees.”

“Oh. Yes, I remember that,” Luke says, speaking slowly, his brow furrowed like he’s trying to figure out where she’s going with the conversation and isn’t having much success.

“That night,” Leia says, “you told us that you wanted to return to Tatooine someday, to end the slave-trade there, just as Han and Chewbacca did on Kashyyyk.”

“Right.”

“So, if you’re going to insist on taking your Jedi friend to Tatooine, why not make good on that promise now?” Leia says. “Tell the Alliance that you’re going home to bring freedom to your homeworld.”

Luke’s frown deepens. “How--”

“It solves several issues, if you think about it,” Leia interrupts, too preoccupied with solidifying the strategies still coming together in her mind to wait for Luke to fumble through his question. “You need an excuse to be on Tatooine for however long your Jedi needs to convalesce, but you’re not eager to tell the Alliance about him. If you tell them that you’re returning for the long-term purpose of studying and dismantling the slave-trade, then you have good reason to be on Tatooine for an extended period of time and keeping a low profile while you’re there. You’ll still be in contact with the Alliance, but they’ll not ask you to fly for them unless it’s an absolute emergency. You’ll have reason for Han and me to be with you, given Han’s experience working in the underbelly of Tatooine and my knowledge of negotiation and government struction. _And,_ if we negotiate delicately enough, we _might_ even be able to gain Alliance support for the initiative. Possibly.”

Luke stares at her, his mouth hanging open a little. “You -- you think that would work?”

“It should,” Leia says. “Unless you’re no longer interested in pursuing that initiative, in which case--”

“You _know_ I am, Leia,” Luke says on a bright flare of temper he either fails to hide or isn’t even trying to keep her from sensing.

“I do,” she says. “I’d not’ve brought it up, if I didn’t. But I wanted to offer you an out, in case. You seem hesitant.”

“I’m not,” Luke says. “It’s just -- it’s a lot to take in. I’ll need to think it through. And talk to -- to the Jedi about it. It’s as much his decision as it is mine.”

“Of course,” Leia says. “I’ll talk it over with Han, see what insights he might have to contribute. He should be calmer now, ready to listen.”

Luke snorts mirthlessly. “He’s not going to like it.”

“He might. And if he doesn’t, I’ll get him to come around. Let me know when you’ve talked to--” She falters, frowns. “Does your Jedi companion have a name, Luke?”

Luke’s discomfort is almost palpable, seizing through his body language as he drops his gaze to his hand, wrapped around Leia’s, still. “He does, yes,” he says after an awkward second, “but it was one given to him by the Emperor, so I don’t -- he doesn’t -- it doesn’t feel _right,_ calling him by it. He’s not been strong enough to tell me his preferred name yet. What he was called before he was taken, or what he wants to be called now.”

A shiver pricks at Leia’s spine, raising the hairs on the back of her neck and forearms despite the warmth of the room. “I see,” she says, standing and rubbing at her arms. “Well. Talk it over with him once he’s strong enough. I’ll see if I can find Han and tell him what we’ve discussed. I don’t think he’s gone far.”

“He hasn’t,” Luke says. “And Leia -- thank you. For -- everything.”

She leans down and kisses him on the mouth, pleased when he reaches up and touches her cheek, as gentle and sweet as the farmboy she first knew him to be. “You’re welcome.”

\---

She finds Han sulking in the pub he’s frequented whenever he doesn’t have her or the _Falcon_ to distract him, a bottle two-thirds full of dark amber liquor in front of him next to a mostly empty glass. He’s got a mild scowl on his face, the expression she’s seen him adopt whenever he’s trying to look unapproachable and tough. A good act that she assumes fools those who don’t know him but looks like little more than a cheap mask to her, the ache and frustration of his argument with Luke glowing bright around him, emphasized by the alcohol in his system.

“I was hoping I’d find you here,” she says by way of greeting, settling in a chair at his side and taking a sip from his glass. “Luke and I talked about his proposal to return to Tatooine.”

Han snorts. “There’s diplomacy for you,” he says. He looks her up and down like he’s trying to get a read on her, and she lets him, secure in the knowledge that he has never, in all the years they’ve known one another, been able to guess what she’s thinking. “You tell him he was crazy, or are you here to tell me we’re goin’ back?”

She takes another sip of his drink, the burn of the alcohol on her tongue unpleasant and rough, nothing like the smooth liquor he keeps stowed on the _Falcon._ “I won’t insult you by arguing that he’s entirely sane,” she offers.

“Yeah, well,” Han says.

He looks out across what might have, at one point, been a nice trading bazaar, the buildings now patched in a sort of permanent state of disrepair, the wares advertised in the windows and door-signs all misleading, no truth to them, part of a coded language that Leia neither knows nor cares to learn, the thrumming underbelly of the smuggling world a fascination that dimmed for her in late childhood. It’s been a part of Han’s life longer than she has, though, by decades, his comfort amidst the deep-set paranoia of the people of Socorro, which she’s not been able to block even in her deepest meditations, as much a part of him as his deep voice, his gentle eyes. As much a part of him as Tatooine is a part of Luke, no matter Luke’s newfound desire to deny his emotional connections with his homeworld.

“What do you suppose you would you be doing, Han,” she says, the words coming on impulse rather than careful thought, “if you’d not found Luke on Tatooine all those years ago?”

Han curls his upper lip at her. “The hell kinda question is that?”

“One I’ve asked myself a hundred times,” Leia says, tracing the tip of her index finger around the curve of Han’s glass “though it’s not a difficult answer, in my case. If my father hadn’t sent me to collect the plans for the _Death Star,_ I’d’ve been home on Alderaan when the Empire attacked, and if you and Luke hadn’t rescued me from the _Death Star,_ I’d’ve been executed there.” She shrugs. “I’d not be here, drinking cheap -- what is this, whiskey? -- with you on Socorro, certainly.”

Han presses his lips together in a thin line and reaches over, pulling his glass away from her. “Yeah, whiskey,” he says, “and is there a point to this, or are you just bein’ depressing?”

“It isn’t depressing, really,” Leia tells him, leaning her elbows on the table and slouching, a posture she could never have gotten away with during her school years. “If you think about it, I’m alive today because of you and Luke. That’s an uplifting thought, isn’t it?”

“Sure,” Han says, picking up his glass and knocking back its contents in one go, “unless you figure that Alderaan wouldn’t’ve been targeted if you hadn’t been taken prisoner, which you wouldn’t’ve if your old man hadn’t sent you on recon in the first place. So you’d be alive and a princess and probably leadin’ armies against the Empire, not sittin’ here with me bein’ _depressing.”_

It’s not a new thought, nothing Leia hasn’t pondered until her head throbbed and her heart ached, but it stings all the same, her throat tightening as she forces a laugh, reaching for the bottle of liquor and taking a drink straight from the mouth. “I was fighting with the rebellion for several years before my father sent me on that mission,” she tells him, licking her lips. “We were doomed for failure, by that point, and I think we all knew it. The Empire would have found us, probably sooner rather than later, and wiped us out. My immediate capture proves that. They were winning by quite a margin.” She takes another drink from the bottle, not quite managing to suppress the shudder that passes through her at the taste. “You and Luke were the turning point for the rebellion. For me. The reason the Empire didn’t win. _Won’t_ win, now.”

Han takes the bottle away from her. “If you’re tryin’ to get me to go to Tatooine by inflating my ego, I can tell you right now: it ain’t gonna work.”

“That isn’t what I’m trying to do,” Leia says, rolling her eyes. “I was just--” she gestures “--thinking out loud, I suppose. Curious what you think you’d be doing now if things hadn’t gone the way they went. If you were still in the smuggling business.”

“Still _am_ in the smuggling business, aren’t I?” Han says. “Just I’m smuggling mystics and royalty nowadays instead’a spice.” He squints at her. “Spice was a lot quieter.”

“I’m sure it was, but you were hardly taking it to bed on a regular basis.”

She looks at him sidelong, enjoying the look of surprise on his face, as if he’s still shocked to hear her speak casually about sex, as amused as always by the grumpy affect he pulls to cover his reaction, determined to act as if he’s unaffected by the world around him. He pours himself another drink, pointedly keeping his hand wrapped around the glass and keeping the bottle well out of her reach, and looks out across the plaza with an unfocused gaze, his index finger tapping against the worn tabletop, one of the few physical tells his has when he’s thinking about something and not liking what he’s come up with.

“All right,” he says after a long moment, emptying his glass and setting it down harder than necessary, “I’d be dead, far as I can figure it if I hadn’t taken Luke and the old man off’a Tatooine with me and gone off to save you. Dead and mounted on the Hutt’s wall, probably. That what you wanted to hear?”

Leia shakes her head. “It’s not,” she says, “though I’m hardly surprised. You spent our first three years constantly looking over your shoulder, and the bounty placed on you by--”

“Don’t need to think about it, thanks,” Han says, his voice raised. “Damn Hutts. Don’t even _want_ to know who filled the power vacuum left after Luke took Jabba out. He wasn’t the worst of his clan _by far,_ you know, and if one’a them--”

“Luke didn’t kill Jabba,” Leia interrupts.

“He -- what?”

“Luke didn’t kill Jabba,” Leia repeats, flexing her hands, the memory vivid still of filthy metal digging into her palms, the collar around her neck pressing hard into her skin as Jabba choked and struggled for his miserable life. “I did. I strangled him with the chain he put on me when he took me as his slave. Luke was off fighting his guards at the time. He had little to do with it, other than cutting me free afterwards so I could get off the barge with him.”

Han stares at her, mouth open a little and eyes wide, horror and rejection rising from him like sweat. Leia waits, holding his gaze, challenging him to speak his mind, gratified when all he does is breathe out on a heavy sigh and refill his glass, pushing it over to her.

“Didn’t know that,” he says.

“I’d not expected you would,” she says, picking up the glass and sipping at the liquor. “Luke doesn’t like talking about it any more than I do. He blames himself, I think, for all of it: your capture, my ... time in captivity. The narrowness of our escape. He feels he should have been able to save us all from the whole thing.”

“He’s got more’n a couple’a screws loose,” Han grumbles, but there’s a swell of affection under his words, steeped in fierce possessiveness and protective instinct.

“He has,” Leia agrees.

Han takes the glass from her, drinks the liquor left in the bottom. “He’s hell-bent on goin’ back home, isn’t he.”

“He is.”

“And he sent you to convince me it’s a good idea somehow.”

 _You’d be just as likely to go along with it if he did,_ Leia doesn’t say. “No,” she says instead. “I wanted to talk it over with you. _Without_ Luke around. I’m not as close to it as he is.”

“Not so sure about that, Princess,” Han says. “And both’a you already know how I feel about it. It ain’t complicated. Goin’ back to Tatooine is a bad idea, and I’m just full up with actin’ on bad ideas.”

“I thought those were your favorite kind.”

“Not when they’re likely to get me shot at,” Han says. “Or you, or Luke. Or Chewie -- you know Chewie _really_ ain’t gonna like this plan. Hot’n dry isn’t what wookiees look for in a place they’re gonna be for any length of time. Bad enough he was stuck there six months helpin’ you and Luke save my ass, I ain’t eager to ask him to do it all again.”

“You know he didn’t mind that any more than we did.”

 _“I_ mind,” Han snaps. “All that, just to get me out. And now, what -- hiding where nobody’ll think to look for us, that still the angle Luke’s going for? Plenty’a other places we could do that, like I said.”

“Of course,” Leia says. “But that number decreases when you consider the need for a cover story convincing enough to allow the three of us to remain separate from the Alliance for however long it takes Luke’s Jedi to regain his strength. There aren’t many worlds I can think of where he could do that without Alliance interference or drawing too much unwanted attention from the locals.”

Han’s eyes narrow. “There a reason he doesn’t just take the guy back to one’a the Alliance strongholds, get him the care and protection he needs there? From the way he tells it, the guy’s a beacon’a light with a couple’a decades of insider knowledge of the Empire. Your Alliance buddies’d probably faint from sheer ecstasy if they knew we had someone like that with us, and in our debt for savin’ him, to boot.”

“If we did that, we’d be doing little more than handing him over from one ruling body interested in exploiting his Force gift to another,” Leia says, _“and_ putting both Luke and myself at risk of similar treatment, or in a position of complicity if we allowed that to happen.”

“You and -- what, are you a Jedi now too or somethin’?”

“I -- no, I’m not trained, beyond some very simple meditation exercises Luke’s taught me since we arrived here,” Leia says, “but I do have ... _sensitivity_ to it, just as Luke does. And I’m not eager for the Alliance to find out about it, any more than he wants them to know we’ve rescued a Jedi from the Empire.”

“Sure it ain’t just a woman’s intuition?” Han wants to know, and Leia laughs despite herself.

“You and my father would have gotten along well,” she says dryly.

“I doubt that,” Han grumbles. “So. You’re a Jedi-in-training and you want to go to Tatooine to get all trained up, is that it?”

“Hardly. I’m not even sure I’ll -- that I _want_ to learn what Luke knows, to be honest. I have other interests demanding my attention, and wouldn’t want to be disrespectful of his doctrine by giving it less than the attention it deserves.”

“Uh-huh.”

Leia crumples a little under the knowing look Han gives her. “It frightens me,” she admits. “All of this. Politics and strategy and conflict negotiation I can handle. Mystical powers that can be used to -- used _for_ \-- the things I’ve seen them used to do--”

“Yeah, that’d scare anyone,” Han says half under his breath, looking out across the bazaar again, stale fear and disgust pulsing around him like body heat, flashes of memory assaulting Leia’s senses like hailstones, her own interrogations at the hands of Darth Vader mingling with Han’s experiences on Bespin, trauma she’s glimpsed before in his nightmares. “Luke ain’t scary, though. The old man wasn’t, either. Kenobi. Kinda crazy, maybe, but he was all right. Chewie liked him.”

“He was a good man,” Leia says.

“Too many’a those runnin’ around these days. Startin’ to make me look bad by comparison,” Han says, winking at her, bringing a smile to her lips.

“You’re just worried it’ll rub off on you,” Leia says. “Scoundrel.”

Han grins, leaning into her personal space and giving her a kiss. “All yours, Your Worship.”

“Gods help me,” Leia says. “You’ll come with us to Tatooine, then?”

“‘Course I will, you two’ll get yourselves killed within a week without me,” Han says. “But I don’t like it. For the record.”

“Noted,” Leia says. She pushes herself to her feet and reaches out to run her hand through Han’s hair, pleased when he lets her, his eyes going a little unfocused, even. “You’ve not even heard the plan yet, you realize.”

“Pretty sure I won’t like it,” Han says.

“You might,” she says. “You were the inspiration behind it.”

“Definitely won’t like it, then,” he says, and Leia’s laughing as she leans down to cover his grin with a kiss.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Author’s musings_  
“Hey, I haven’t done a story from Leia’s PoV in this AU yet, I should totally do that,” I thought, back in May 2016, merrily writing up a few hundred words of Leia-PoV story that _didn’t even make it into this chapter._ But then my life turned itself into a hissing snake of personal and professional stress somewhere in there, and here we are, just shy of a full year later, and instead of the delightful, sweet OT3 smut I was setting out to write back when the trees still had leaves on them and I knew how it felt to relax, I got this nonsense.

Oops?

Struggles aside, I’ve really enjoyed this little AU and the opportunity it’s afforded me to ponder the what-ifs and cause/effects within the _Star Wars_ universe, in no small part because my partner’s gotten in on it as well with a level of enthusiasm he rarely has for _Star Wars_ and _never_ has for anything fandom-related. Not that he knows, explicitly, that it’s fandom-related, but he’s not a complete moron, so I’m guessing he’s pieced it together that it is. I’m not looking a gift-tauntaun in the mouth, though, I’m taking what I can get and enjoying it, damnit, because hot damn there has been precious little fun in my life these last four months.

Feels good to be back. Hope y’all like the story. There’ll be steamy stuff eventually, I promise. In the mean, if you’d like to drop me a comment, that’d make me a happy m3Q, that it would.


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